


I'll Bite You in the Ear!

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (Books) [10]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Belting, Book: Miecz przeznaczenia | Sword of Destiny, Corporal Punishment, Gen, Spanking, also geralt giving piggy back rides, ciri being a brat, geralt and his adorkable threats, ultimate tired dad geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22121398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Now listen, you brat, in a minute, I’ll put you across my knee, pull down your britches, and tan your backside.No one will stop me from doing it, because this isn’t the royal court, and I’m not your flunkey or servant. You’ll soon regret you didn’t stay in Nastrog. You’ll soon see it's better being a princess than a snot-nosed kid who got lost in the forest.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Witcher (Books) [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624276
Comments: 15
Kudos: 131





	I'll Bite You in the Ear!

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Geralt threating to whip people is my favorite part of the books. Hands down. Also threatening to whip her takes place before telling her his name, because that’s just Geralt.

“Do you know who’s sitting on your back?”

Geralt said nothing, although he did roll his eyes a bit. He couldn’t care less who was sitting on his back - she was sitting on his back, after all, and should be thankful for it. He could have made her walk. Perhaps he still should. Her foot was injured, but as long as it wasn’t broken, walking for five or ten minutes wouldn’t harm it, and might teach her a lesson.

He was still mulling over dropping her on the ground and making her walk when she shouted, “I’ll bite you in the ear!”

Deciding he’d had enough, Geralt pulled Ciri off his back. It was rather like pulling off a leech that tried to cling to him, but he was bigger, stronger, and soon she was standing on the ground, pouting at him and making a show of favoring the leg she’d sprained.

“Now listen, you brat,” he said, unbuckling his belt. He fumbled slightly, too irritated at the girl to focus clearly, and it took more effort than it should have to remove it. “In a minute, I’ll put you across my knee, pull down your britches, and tan your backside.”

Ciri yelped and looked to Braenn as though the dryad might help her, but the woman only made a show of vanishing into the forest. It seemed she’d had enough of the princess’ antics as well.

“No one will stop me from doing it, because this isn’t the royal court, and I’m not your flunkey or servant. You’ll soon regret you didn’t stay in Nastrog. You’ll soon see its better being a princess than a snot-nosed kid who got lost in the forest.” Geralt pulled off his gloves, tucking them into his waistband, not once taking his eyes off the troublemaker. “Because, it’s true, a princess is allowed to act obnoxiously. And no one thrashes a princess’s backside with a belt. At most her husband, the prince, might with his own hand.”

“Well?” he asked, wrapping his belt around his hand. “Are we doing to behave with dignity and temperance? If not, we shall set about tanning Her Majesty’s hide. Well? What’s it going to be?”

“You can’t-”

He could.

Geralt wasted no time in wrapping an arm around the girl’s midsection, pulling her off her feet as she wined and protested, shouting out more threats. Truth to be told, he’d wanted to avoid thrashing her, because despite what people might think about him, he wasn’t heartless, and her fright pulled at something in his stomach. But her constant whining was worse than Dandelion at his worst and far less endearing.

“My grandmama will have your head!”

He placed one foot against a fallen tree, still standing as he tossed the squealing girl over his knee.

“You peasant! I’ll-”

Whatever she was going to do, Geralt never found out. Her sentence was cut off by the crack of his belt and turned into a sob, then a wail.

“Calling people a peasant just because you don’t like them isn’t very noble of you and hardly-”

“You are a peasant! And I am-”

The next blow was slightly stronger, causing her to try to scramble off his knee. Geralt grabbed the back of her shirt to hold her in place. “Don’t interrupt me, imp,” he said sharply. “If her highness is good and lays still, I’ll let her keep her britches.”

“You can’t!”

“Can’t let you keep your britches? I suppose not.”

Ciri struggled and fought as Geralt pulled at her pants, managing to wriggle off his knee and end up on the forest floor. He placed his boot on the small of her back, putting barely enough pressed to pin her in place. “Princess, if I’m to take you alive through the Brokilon, you will need to learn some respect for a lowly peasant such as myself, even if I have to thrash it into you myself.”

She sobbed and pushed herself onto her elbows, but didn’t appear to be actively trying to flee. He removed his foot, then bent to pull Ciri to her feet, ever mindful of her hurt foot. Her face was streaked with mud, tears, and snot, which she tried to wipe on her sleeve, but to no avail.

Out of habit, Geralt nearly reached for a handkerchief to offer her, then remembered what he was doing. She must have seen his fingers twitch toward his pocket because she whimpered and looked down.

“Now will Her Majesty pull her britches to her knees, or shall I do it for her?”

Ciri seemed to think, and Geralt gave her a moment to come to a decision. Finally, when his patience was almost out, she pulled her pants to her knees, still not meeting his eyes.

Geralt grabbed her and once again turned her over his knee, bracing one foot against the tree. Her skin was pale, except where two long red lines traced across it. No doubt she’d never gotten anything worse than a switch on her skin, so he’d have to be careful not to take things too far. She wasn’t one of Vesemir’s Witcher foundlings, after all, who could take a great deal of whipping.

She was silent through the next two strikes, then let out a whimper at the third. After the fourth, she sobbed, “Please, noble lord-”

“I’ve been promoted to lord now?” Geralt asked, pausing to rest his hand on her back. Ciri sniffed. “Is the princess trying to bribe her way back into my graces by offering favors?” He snorted, almost grinning.

“No, sir!”

He stuck the belt over her backside again. “Don’t lie.”

“Please!” she sobbed. “Please sir, I- I-” but she fell silent of her own accord, sniffling and whining.

Geralt patted her back. He suspected she’d learned her lesson - baring her backside seemed to have done the trick - but if he stopped now, she’d think she’s won him over by calling him a lord. “You’ve had six strikes so far, so I’ll think we’ll go for a nice even ten.” Vesemir would have given Geralt at least thrice that for the same behavior, but she wasn’t Geralt and he wasn’t Vesemir.

Ciri sobbed and grabbed his ankle, wrapping her hands around it to stabilize herself. “Sir,” she pleaded. “Sir, I don’t know if I can-”

He landed the seventh strike and she gasped, a spasm running through her slight body. “You can,” Geralt promised her. “And then I’ll wipe your face and set your clothes to rights.”

Ciri seemed to be beyond words, especially once the eighth strike landed. His belt was nearly half as wide as her backside, and he did not envy at all how she was going to feel come morning. But she’d earned it herself, despite multiple warnings from the Witcher, so he landed the ninth strike without hesitating.

But he paused before the tenth, made up his mind, and - before he could talk himself out of it - scooped her up, cradled her to his chest, and leaned back against the tree. He supported her with one hand under her legs - careful to keep his hand under her thighs, not against her sore backside - and one against her back. His belt he dropped to the forest floor.

“N-nine,” she sniffed.

“Hmm, yes,” Geralt agreed, brushing hair off her forehead. “I’ve only given you nine strikes when I promised you ten. Does that disappoint you, princess?”

“N-no sir.”

“I didn’t think so. Here’s what I shall do: so long as you’re a good and obedient brat, we’ll count this as your last strike.” He removed his hand from her back and smacked it against her bottom, but there was little force behind it.

She whimpered anyway, but mumbled, “Thank you,” once she’d caught her breath.

He rubbed her back, but when she made to hide her face in his shoulder, he clucked his tongue. “You’re far too snotty for that,” he said. “Here- reach into my pocket - the left one - and get out my handkerchief. Wipe your face with that - mind you, you’ll be the one to clean it - and then I’ll let you have a cry.”

She did as she was told, wiping her face until the cloth was filthy, then hiding her nose in Geralt’s shoulder and sniffling. He rubbed soothing circles on her back, shushing her as she began to weep in earnest.

“Remember this princess,” he said, brushing her mousy hair, trying in vain to neaten it. “There will always be far more peasants than princesses or queens, and it’s likely they will be stronger than you.”

“They won’t be stronger than my grandmama!” she said, sniffling and looking up at him.

He considered telling her that grandmamas wouldn’t live forever, but that seemed excessively cruel to tell a child who just been whipped by a stranger, so he only patted her shoulder. “Wouldn’t you rather have friends than enemies?”

She considered. “You can be my friend!”

“Oh, I could?”

Ciri nodded, seeming pleased with herself. “You can go back home with me and protect me from the peas-”

He cleared his throat. “Ciri, what have I said about calling everyone you don’t like peasants?”

“Not all of them,” she said. “Only the bad ones.”

“And how many of them are bad, do you think? Answer me truthfully, imp.”

“Grandmama would say most of them.”

“And what does Ciri say?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Less than most.”

Geralt sighed, sitting her on her feet and pulling up her pants. It was a start, he decided. When he bent to pick up his belt from the ground she whimpered.

“Now, now, princess, I’ve given you ten strikes and that’s all you’ve earned. I’m putting my belt back to rights before my pants come off is all.” 

Once his belt was back in place he stooped, letting Ciri crawl back onto his back. “Now let’s find our guide,” he said, scanning the trees for Braenn. “She can’t have gone far.”

**Author's Note:**

> The dialogue up through “Well? What’s it going to be?” is borrowed from the book The Sword of Destiny. In the book, she ends up giving in and apologizing (sort of) but she’s such a spitfire that I could imagine her carrying on even more. And then, once he started whipping her, she’d just keep making more trouble (because she’s my stubborn baby asshole). 
> 
> In the book he notes he doesn’t have a handkerchief to give her, but meh, this is cuter.


End file.
